mere definitions
by addictedtochocolates
Summary: 'cos baby, can't you see? normalcy's nothing more than a definition, a phrase, an idea.


I don't own iCarly, if I did, I wouldn't be suffering through Mid Years. Sighh.

The seddie in this episode almost killed me. Well, that, and the lit exam I had today. They fried my brains! D;

Disclaimer: iCarly no sooner belongs to me than it does a troupe of flying killer monkeys. There's no such thing? Damn, so iCarly still belongs to Dan Schneider.

Warnings: Angst, lack of a happy ending.

* * *

Is it just him, or had there been a glint of hurt in her eyes?

He sees the memory of it all in his eyes: Him throwing a pear to Carly, pretending to throw it to Sam but flinging it behind him expertly to Spencer, one to Gibby. He sees the cupped hands that no one seems to notice, the hope, happiness and excitement in her eyes as she does, only to have the sparkle in her eyes vanish to hurt, her grin turning into a frown as she realises what his intentions are, her hands put down as quickly as they had come up, looking from the pear in Gibby's hands to Carly's , and eventually he feels her eyes staring at him intently, boring into him like a drill into a stone wall.

They stare at him accusingly, he can tell, but he doesn't dare look back into them. They were, if memory served, and trust him, his memory of them were crystal clear, despite it all seeming surreal and a lifetime ago, an ocean blue, and when hurt looked like the sea on a particularly stormy day, and he knew that the hurt and pain would be too much for him to bear if he looked straight at them, especially since he knew that he had been the one who caused it.

So instead he looks away, feeling like the coward he was, his own heart breaking, shattering, into millions of pieces for intentionally hurting the blonde demon in front of him, the princess of his dreams.

He doesn't even blame her, not really, for proposing that he test Gibby's deodorant. Not really.

He knows that putting him down is her way of hiding her feelings, and he knows that she's hurting inside, for her to suggest it so nonchantly and without hesitation.

(And also because he's an idiotic jerk who honestly doesn't deserve her giving him the light of day, even if it is to put him down.)

* * *

He's sitting at home, now, in his plain old button down shirt, and he's sulking about everything, from him being fired to Sam being the main reason why, she's ruined everything, from NERD camp to the Model Train Club to even his job at the Pear Store, and he's fuming mad and furious and even though he knows it wouldn't help matters, all he feels like doing is hitting somebody, hard, to vent his frustrations and anger.

It's at this point that the doorbell rings, and he stomps outside to answer it. To his annoyance, no one's there, and he groans and closes his eyes. This honestly cannot be happening, not on what already seems like the worst day of his life.

It's then where he hangs his head down, his eyes opening, and sees the red puddle of cloth at his feet. He picks it up, the frown on his face fading as he notices the small pear logo on the front of the shirt. A piece of paper flutters down to the floor, making a spiral shape as it lands, and even from where he's standing he can see the letter S signed on the piece of crumpled up foolscap, it's somewhat doodly and messy, as if it had been written haphazardly and as an afterthought, not that it's really needed for Freddie to know who it comes from. There's only one person who'd do it as her silent form of apologies.

He holds the shirt to his chest protectively as he closes the door and heads for his room, the guilt finally hits him as he sits on his bed, his face in the soft, downy material of the red shirt as everything he told Natalie about Sam finally hits home, and a pang to his heart hits with each word.

Criminal. Nuisance. Lousy at technology. Doesn't deserve a job.

The words sting his chest and fills him with guilt, his eyes start to sting as well, and the smell on the shirt, goddamnit, it smells like her, of strawberries and vanilla and ham and bacon and… and… Sam.

It smells of Sam, and the familiar smell burns his nostrils, because only god knows how painful it is to smell it and not have her near him, to know that he's lost all rights to ever actually be able to smell it whenever he wants to, but yet he's so addicted to it, he wants to be constantly be able to smell it, until it's embedded in his mind, to the point where he doesn't even notice it any more.

He had that right once. But he'd lost it.

Her words hit home as well, the ones she'd said to Natalie, filled with careful nonchalance and deliberate malice, loud enough for him to hear it, to spot the pain and hurt in her voice, the one that's waving it's hands in the air, going, I'm here, can't you see? Can't you see the scars and torment you've put me through.

Her mouth moves, her beautiful blue eyes focused on his bland, boring brown ones, and he swears she's saying it more to prove a point to him instead of Natalie.

_We sorta dated for a while… He's still in love with me, it's kinda sad._

And he hears the bitter edge to the words, and as he reflects on them he realises with a bitter laugh that maybe she's right.

It's been months since they'd broken up, and he was still hung over her, a shadow that couldn't be erased from his mind. She'd meant what she was saying, and every single word out of her mouth had been true and honest, despite whatever she felt about it at the time, to spite him or to prove a point. He doesn't know.

He'll never know, because the insides of Sam Puckett's mind is a shrouded mystery, a place where no explorer has ever searched, and no one will ever really know what she's thinking.

_If you get a little more normal… __**or if you get a little more abnormal…**_

The ghosts of the words spoken so long ago linger in the air over Freddie as he continues to clutch the shirt to his chest and stare at the cracks in the ceilings.

Streets away, in a rougher part of town, where there are no streetlights and shouts of anger can be heard five minutes apart without fail, a blonde lies on her own crickety bed, staring at he own ceiling, holding herself tightly.

Unbeknownst to the both of them, they both close their eyes together, wondering if it was worth it, if their choices had been right.

After all, normalcy is but a clumsy description created by imperfect humans, isn't it?

* * *

Hey! Sorry for not updating iMYA instead, I've been having troubles writing it out so far! I have the plot and everything figured out, but I just cant seem to be able to put it into words.

Meanwhile, here's an angstyish (Well, the most angsty I've ever written, that is.) fic as an unworthy replacement. D:

Reviews, please?


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